


the trombonist

by galaxiay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, aziraphale regrets every major life decision and crowley doesnt know what the word subtle means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:26:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxiay/pseuds/galaxiay
Summary: Aziraphale's neighbor is incredibly obnoxious and enjoys playing the trombone very terribly at inopportune moments. When Gabriel takes him to a jazz club to relieve his stress, he sees the performance of a mysterious trombonist who changes his view on the instrument.





	the trombonist

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open and it took him all of 0.7 seconds to figure out what had woken him up so sudden and rudely. He had fallen asleep at the desk in his home study yet again after yet another round of pouring over manuscripts late into the night.

It’s not really that he liked to sleep so much,* but he just happened to doze off from time to time, usually when he was stressed and his work was piling up. He so rarely voluntarily slept in his own bed that it you looked closely, you might have been able to see a thin layer of dust on top of the neatly made bed. However, nearly every time and without fail, whenever he just so happened to doze off at his desk, he would be rudely awoken by the abhorrent racket his next door flat neighbor would put up.

*He actually usually tried to put it off as long as he possibly could and had gotten quite good at it.

The first time he had heard it, Aziraphale had thought it might have been some poor animal in horrible pain, absolutely wailing in agony somewhere in the building. He was quick to realize that this was not the case. Instead, it was a human being playing an instrument. A trombone, in fact. And very, _very_ badly, if you could even call whatever they were doing playing. It sounded like they had just put the poor and unfortunate trombone up to their mouth and screamed into it while jerking the slide every which way. 

In the beginning, Aziraphale was sure that this...er… _musician_ , knew that they were god awful in every way and were maybe making a conscious effort to get better. This was very quickly figured not to be the case as within the past few months, nothing had changed; not even the slightest bit of improvement could be heard from next door. No one could be that bad at playing an instrument, even as a beginner, and certainly no one could be so oblivious to how absolutely horrendous they were. After the third round of this, Aziraphale concluded that his next door neighbor was, in short, an asshole, and were doing what they were doing simply to be obnoxious. How no one else in the building had issued a noise complaint yet had to have been nothing short of a miracle. 

Slowly, Aziraphale lifted his head from his arms and glared at the clock above the desk. Six thirty-seven in the morning. The sun had hardly risen, and yet here his neighbor was, loudly and obnoxiously making a racket with their less than desirable trombone abilities. While this neighbor often decided to torture the eardrums and test the patience of everyone in a five mile radius at inopportune times, most notably very early in the morning, Aziraphale had long since become accustomed to it. 

But this was the last straw for him. He always considered himself a man more patient and understanding than others, but he had been very stressed recently and a line had to be drawn somewhere. Less sleep than usual, swamped with his work as an editor (and having to edit some very poorly written things recently), and people coming into his bookstore to actually buy books (the absolute nerve!) did not make for a very patient or understanding Aziraphale. Especially at the crack of dawn, running on eight hours of sleep within the past four days, and with that blasted and loathsome trombone! 

With a grunt of utmost indignance, Aziraphale got to his feet and briskly walked out of the study room, towards the front door of his flat. He was a bit frazzled what with just waking up and being so annoyed that he hardly had enough sense to remember to grab his robe as he passed his (mostly) unused bedroom. He figured that it wouldn’t make a very good first impression if he showed up on his neighbors doorstep in only his night clothes. Not that his neighbor really thought much or first impressions, now that he thought about it. But it was no matter of what this terrible musician thought of them, Aziraphale would not be the one to look bad. 

He had just placed a hand on the door knob of his front door when just as suddenly as it had started, the wailing racket of the tortured instrument ceased. Aziraphale paused for a moment, thinking of where to go from there. 

Well, if they were done now, was there really any sense in going over to tell them to knock it off after they’d already done so themselves? After a moment of contemplation, he decided yes, in fact, there absolutely was. He opened the door of his flat and marched a short way down the hall to the next door over and lifted a fist to knock. He brought his hand back, but paused again, knuckles mere centimeters from hitting the door. They hadn’t played in a minute so maybe that had finished for that morning, after all. Should Aziraphale really go through the trouble to drag this out longer than it needed to be? 

With a sigh, Aziraphale shook his head, lowered his hand back to his side, and walked back over to his own flat. All the while, he was kicking himself for not going through with it, but he knew if he tried again, the outcome wouldn’t be much different. He had never been one for confrontation, even when it came to something like this. Inevitably, the trombonist would wake him up again another day with their poor abused instrument and Aziraphale knew he would march over there, just to chicken out at the last minute again. 

Back in his own flat, he walked to his bedroom and went straight to the closet. There was no way he would be getting back to sleep now; he was far to awake for that what with the short rush of adrenaline in his veins. He didn’t feel like working anymore either and actually thought it would be best to distance himself from it for a moment. If he had to see “who” and “whom” switched up just one more time in a single manuscript, he was going to pop a blood vessel in his forehead. No sense in getting himself so worked up so early in the morning*. Instead, he decided he would pop down to the café just down the street for a cup of tea and something to eat to calm himself down. 

*Well, more than he already was, anyway.

By the time he had gotten himself dressed, exited his own flat, and began to head downstairs, it was already ten past seven o’clock which, thankfully, meant that the shop would have just opened up. If he was quick about it, he could beat the morning rush, as well. 

He was just about to exit the building when the racket started up again just above his head, startling Aziraphale. He gritted his teeth, having half a mind to match back up those stairs and tell his neighbor off for real this time. He instead decided that to leave it alone for now would probably be his best option. He was already so close to freedom from the noise, so close to his escape, that there would hardly be any point at all in going all the way back of the stairs just to argue for silence that he wouldn’t be around to enjoy. 

With a pointed look up at the ceiling and a huff, he exited the building where he could no longer hear the treacherous racket his neighbor put up, and walked down the street, trying to expel all thought of that morning’s incident. 

Although it was only a few minutes past seven in the morning and the sun had only started peeking higher over the tall buildings, there were quite a few people out and about. It was London after all so Aziraphale couldn’t be too upset when numerous people bumped into him during is short, only a few blocks walk. Like always, he apologized for the other person's mistake as if it were his fault and like always, his apology was ignored. He couldn’t really blame them for that either. If any of them had as rude an awakening as he had had that morning, they were well within their rights to walk past without another word. 

The walk to the café was thankfully very short and it wasn’t long before he was inside, had ordered, and retrieved said order. He opted for the unoccupied table by the front window as he usually enjoyed sitting at, watching the people outside go about their days. Before drinking his tea or eating the danish he ordered, he just sat there with his eyes closed for a moment, enjoying the tranquility of the little shop. The smell of the coffee beans, the idle chatter between employees behind the counter, the-

“Aziraphale? Is that you?”

And just like that, the only moment of relaxation he knew he would be getting today was over. This voice just proved that it was a single moment of calm in between fiascos, that much was for sure. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes just in time to see one of his coworkers, a fellow editor with a little higher standing, sit down across from him. Aziraphale smiled, hoping it didn’t look as bitter as he felt it might have. He tried to keep all traces of annoyance or disappointment out of his voice, “Hello, Gabriel.”

It wasn’t so much that Aziraphale _disliked_ Gabriel, per se, quite the opposite actually.* He thought very highly of him, but the other man was often a little too straight forward and somewhat obnoxious. That was something Aziraphale didn’t want to deal with any more of today. 

*Or at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. 

“So, what brings you out this early in the morning? I know you never leave the house without your own tea,” Gabriel said, nodding to the cup on the table in front of Aziraphale. It was true that Aziraphale usually liked to make his own tea; no where else could make it just quite right. “I was just out for a run and thought I’d stop here for a quick bite to eat before I got back out there.” Now that he mentioned it, Aziraphale noticed that he was dressed in a tracksuit and had a thin layer of sweat over his forehead. He subconsciously pulled his cup and plate closer to him. 

“Hm, well, yes, I do usually like my own tea as opposed to tea from anywhere else, but I just didn’t feel like staying at my own flat this morning,” he shrugged nonchalantly, trying not to think of the real reason he physically could not bare to stay at home any longer.

Gabriel nodded and then leaned forward, squinting and looking closely at that man in front of him. “Well, you look pretty tired there; I can’t imagine what possessed you to come out instead of staying in. 

Aziraphale tried to ignore the subtle insult, instead sighing sharply and sitting up straighter in his seat. “Well, if you must know, I was rudely awoken yet again by my increasingly obnoxious neighbor. I had never even met this person, never even seen them, even, but they’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side since they moved in four months ago. Every morning, they wake me up with the most _insidious_ racket, not to mention that fact that I’ve already been very busy as stressed as of late,” he said in one breath. It was much more than he had wanted to share with Gabriel, but he had done so anyway. 

“Ah,” Gabriel nodded slowly, processing everything the other man had said. “Hey, you know what I think would be really good for you?”

Oh no.

“There’s this really nice jazz club I know, super underground stuff, and I think you would like it. It might also help to de-stress you a little.”

Oh. Well, that wasn’t exactly what Aziraphale thought he might suggest, but nonetheless, he remained uninterested, especially after the mention of jazz. He’d never been a big fan of the genre to begin with, but after the last few months in his apartment building, he’d had just about enough “jazz” as he’d be willing to take for a good while.* It is also worth mentioning that whenever Aziraphale was forced into doing something Gabriel wanted to do, it never ended up well for him. 

*Namely, for the rest of his life, actually.

“Thank you for the offer, Gabriel, you’re very kind,” Aziraphale started tentatively, trying to pretend like he didn’t notice the way the other man puffed himself up after the compliment, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no.”

Gabriel’s smile fell and Aziraphale felt slightly guilty, that is, until a smirk replaced his frown. Now _that_ couldn’t be a good sign. 

“Oh come on Zira-”

“Please don’t call me that-”

“We all know you’re a bit stuffy, but I think you could really use this. Trust me, one look in the mirror will tell you all you need to know.”

Aziraphale gawked at him, his mouth slightly agape. They had been talking for less than five minutes and yet Gabriel had already thrown two thinly disguised insults and one blatant one his way! Normally, he would have just brushed it off, but this morning was really not the morning he wanted to be tested any further than he already had. He gathered himself and prepared to tell the other man off. “Look, Gabriel, I appreciate the gesture, truly, but-” He didn’t get to finish his statement as he was interrupted. 

“Oh, so you’ll go? Great!” Gabriel said, getting up from his seat.

“What? No! Gabriel please, I am really not-!” he tried desperately, but it fell upon deaf ears.

“I’ll meet you back here at seven thirty tonight!” 

“Gabriel, listen to me! I seriously have no interest in-!” he shouted until Gabriel disappeared from the café and was already jogging down the street. “Accompanying you to the jazz club…,” he trailed off quietly to himself. With a sigh, he glanced up just in time to see the baristas behind the counter quickly avert their eyes from him, just in time. They had clearly watched the whole interaction. 

Aziraphale himself looked away, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. He decided there would be no use in staying any longer and stood, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. He left the half-drank cup of tea on the table, but reached down to his plate for his danish, only to find there was nothing there. In surprise, he looked up and around before his eyes settled on the door. Gabriel. Of course. He had roped Aziraphale into something he desperately didn’t want to do, stolen his breakfast while he was distracted, and left. 

Now Aziraphale wasn’t one to swear often, but this case seemed to call for it. “Damn it,” he muttered quietly under his breath and left. 

////

All Aziraphale wanted to do in that moment was to just go home. He stood waiting outside the coffee shop, per Gabriel’s request, but already he was starting to seriously regret his decision.* Spending the night with _Gabriel_ at a _jazz club_ was definitely not how he envisioned he would be spending his night twenty four hours ago. 

*In fact, he was starting to regret nearly every single decision he had made that day, but that was a different issue.

One glance at his watch told him that it was seven twenty-six and he knew that Gabriel tended to have an affinity for being late. He supposed if he decided to sneak home now, he would be able to get out of it and Gabriel wouldn’t even know he’d been there at all. 

Yes, actually, he decided. He would just go home now and leave Gabriel to “wait” for his own arrival and then deal with the consequences at a later date.* It was a brilliant plan. Just as he made up his mind and turned to walk back to his flat, Aziraphale heard someone calling his name from behind him. 

*It was inevitable that Gabriel would chew him out for skipping; you could wait for Gabriel, but Gabriel didn’t like waiting for other people much.

“Oi, Aziraphale! You actually decided to come after all! Great!” Of course. The one time he was actually on time, early even, it just had to be now. 

He turned around with a false and apologetic smile as Gabriel reached him. “Ah, yes, well, about that. I’m not actually sure that I-”

Not for the first time today, and most likely not for the last, Gabriel had cut him off by grabbing his arm and beginning to lead him in the opposite direction of his apartment building. “Come on, we don’t want to be late so we can get a good table. I’ve heard there’s going to be an amazing soloist tonight. They hardly ever play for the public so we can’t miss it!” 

With no chance of escape in sight, Aziraphale gave in and allowed himself to be pulled along. 

_I should have just yelled at that blasted trombonist when I had the chance_ , Aziraphale thought bitterly. 

It took a while to reach this “underground jazz club” as Gabriel had put it. After more than twenty minutes of walking and cutting through various dimly lit back alleys, Aziraphale was seriously starting to doubt his companion in the very existence of this place. The longer they trekked through London, it seemed more and more that he might have been escorting him to some sort of secret cult meeting rather than a casual music club. 

Finally, Gabriel stopped in the middle of one of the various alleys with less than sufficient lighting. There, wedged in between two buildings, was a short stone staircase and a vaguely ominous wooden door at the bottom. That was _really_ not helping ease Aziraphale nor was it helping the whole “culty vibe” of the situation. 

Gabriel started walking down the stairs, but Aziraphale hesitated at the top, feeling more uneasy than ever. Once again, he was seriously regretting every decision he had made that led him up to this moment. 

His companion stopped halfway down the stairs when he noticed that Aziraphale was not following him. Gabriel sighed sharply, “Come on! If you make me miss this soloist, I will literally never forgive you.” 

Finally, he had made a favorable suggestion. It was fine by Aziraphale so long as it meant he might be able to be left alone in his stress without interference. He might have stayed and forced Gabriel to wait, but the other man tightly gripped his arm again and pulled which actually rather hurt. Reluctantly, he started down the stairs and tried to ignore all the instincts that were telling him to get out of there. 

Gabriel pushed the door open and entered, Aziraphale following, braced for the worst, however, it was nothing like he had imagined it might be. It appeared to be a jazz club alright, and a relatively classy one at that. There were candles at every table (which nearly all were full) and the overhead lights were a reddish, orangish hue. 

On the stage at the front of the room, a woman in a glittering gown stood singing a slow and sultry melody with a small band playing behind her. Nearly every man in the room had his eyes glued to her, watching her every move and taking in every note she sang. Aziraphale felt like he just stumbled into another world. If he hadn’t thought the idea preposterous, he might have just thought he’d stumbled back in time to the 1940s or something like that. 

“Damn it; we’re late,” Gabriel sighed in annoyance, clearly significantly less mystified than Aziraphale was. Still holding his arm, Gabriel led him to what seemed like the only empty table in the room; it was in the very back just next to the restrooms. Aziraphale took a seat, watching the woman on stage, her dress shimmering under the lights as she moved. 

She must have been the soloist Gabriel had been talking about and he could see why he hadn’t wanted to miss her performance. She was very pretty and her talent was evident; he supposed if he had been attracted to women himself, he wouldn’t have wanted to miss it either. But while he may not have been attracted to women, that didn’t make the experience any less beguiling. 

“Stay here,” Gabriel told him. “I’m going to go get us some drinks. We might not have gotten the best table, but it doesn’t look like we missed the soloist yet.” He then walked away towards the bar, leaving Aziraphale surprised and confused. So...if she wasn’t who Gabriel was so desperate to see, who was?

The woman on stage finished her song, bowed, and walked off stage with her band following behind her. The room erupted in whistles and clapping, Aziraphale clapping politely, too. Slowly, the lights of the room began to shift to a fluorescent purple and the applause from the entire club quickly subsided. Near silence over took the room aside from a few murmurs here and there. Everyone seemed to be waiting. Waiting for this mysterious soloist, Aziraphale presumed. 

Gabriel then came hurtling back over to his seat, startling Aziraphale and nearly spilling their drinks as he sat them down haphazardly on the table. 

“What’s-?”

“Shh! They’re about to come on!” Gabriel hissed, his eyes glued to the stage.

Aziraphale closed his mouth and turned his attention to the front just like everyone else in the room had. It was then that man came out and sat at the piano at the back of the stage. After a pause it which it seemed like the whole club collectively was holding their breath, a second man walked out. Aziraphale drew in a sharp intake of air, his eyes glued to this new man, just like everyone else in the room. 

This new man was dressed in a sharp, yet casual black suit with a blood red button down shirt underneath his coat. The way he strolled onto the stage with such swagger suggested the utmost confidence. Despite the low violet lighting on the room, he wore sunglasses. Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would have thought him a fool, but this was no normal circumstance. He was...beautiful, for lack of a better word, breathtaking. He was nothing like Aziraphale had ever seen before and he couldn’t help but be drawn in, completely captivated by everything about him. 

He hadn’t even noticed that the pianist had began to play nor that the soloist was holding a trombone in his hands until he brought the mouthpiece up to his lips. Aziraphale didn’t even have time to brace himself, but it seemed that he didn’t need it. It was...unlike anything Aziraphale had ever seen or heard before, something completely indescribable. This soloist played a slow a mournful lament, yet painstakingly beautiful. 

Everyone in the room was entranced, but none more than Aziraphale. He didn’t even realize that he was leaning forward in his seat, utterly entranced by the performance. After being forced to listen to his neighbor, he had seen completely blind to just how stunning and lovely the instrument could sound. This was someone who knew what they were doing with the instrument and loved every second of it. 

As the man on stage carried on, he swayed slowly back and forth to his own tune. All too soon, the song came to an end with a long, drawn out low note and he lowered the instrument from his lips, far too soon for Aziraphale’s liking. He bowed and the room erupted in noise, but to Aziraphale, it was all muffled and far away sounding as he still remained in a somewhat trance like state. His eyes stayed on the man on stage before he bowed one last time and disappeared behind the curtain. 

A moment later, a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. He jumped slightly and looked over to see Gabriel looking at him, a concerned look at his face. “Hey, you good there? I asked you what you thought and called your name a few times, but you didn’t even look at me. Are you, hey, wait, are you _crying_?” 

Confused, Aziraphale lifted a hand to his cheek and pulled it away, feeling that it was damp. He was indeed crying and he hadn’t even realized it. “I’m…,” he thought for a moment, considering what to say next. “Yes, I’m quite alright. Just a bit...overwhelmed, I suppose.” 

Gabriel retracted his hand and nodded knowingly. “Yeah, he really was something else. Aren’t you glad you came with me tonight, then?” he asked, snarkily. 

Aziraphale nodded, surprised with how much he had actually enjoyed the performance. He just wished he knew the name of that soloist. Obviously Gabriel didn’t know, or he would have mentioned it at some point. Aziraphale had never been one to believe in something silly like “love at first sight,” but he would be lying if he had said he wasn’t absolutely mystified by the whole performance. 

The rest of the night passed both much quicker and much slower than Aziraphale would have liked. Throughout the rest of their time at the club, he just could not shake the feeling that trombone soloist had left on him. Without meaning to, Aziraphale’s mind would wander, drifting back to the sweet music he had played or the way he held himself or his handsome face. He found himself more than once sweeping the room with his eyes, just to see if he could catch one more glimpse before the night ended. However, this did not happen. While other performers of the night mingled with their audience, the trombonist was nowhere to be seen. The longer the night dragged on, the hope of seeing him one last time diminished exponentially. 

It was well past midnight, approaching just a few minutes until one when Gabriel suggested they should finally leave. The room had already greatly cleared out, only a few occupied tables left, including their own. Finally realizing that the man he had been looking for most likely left hours earlier, Aziraphale agreed to leave and stood with a disappointed exhale. 

Gabriel had insisted he escort Aziraphale home (who was secretly grateful as he was sure he would get lost all by himself; that and navigating London in the middle of the night was very, very low on his favorite activities). He must have been chattering on the whole way back, but if he had been, Aziraphale had hardly taken any notice. His mind was far too preoccupied, something he would find very silly and a slight bit embarrassing once he had come to his senses. Strange new emotions and a severe lack of sleep did not make for a good combination when it came to what made up the average, rational human being. 

They reached Aziraphale’s flat sometime around one thirty in the morning and Aziraphale was exhausted at that point. He didn’t even notice that Gabriel had asked him a question.

“What do you think then, Aziraphale? Er...Aziraphale…?” he asked, finally noticing that his companion had not been listening. 

The man in question finally came to his senses as he unlocked his front door after fumbling around with trying to get the keys in the lock more times than he would ever care to admit. “Uh...huh? Oh, yes, yes, right. See you later, then,” he muttered distractedly and slipped inside before Gabriel could utter another word, not even seeing the confused and slightly concerned look on his face. 

For the first time in a long time, Aziraphale collapsed onto his bed, still in the clothes he had worn out, and drifted off into a relatively satisfying sleep. 

////

One might have called it “questionable behavior” at best. Or, if a person were not one to automatically assume the best, they might have chosen the more extreme way to say it: “stalking.” Though neither of these would be the way Aziraphale would have put it. Perhaps it was _questionable_ , yes, but was it really _stalking_ if he could not seem to locate the person in question to begin with? He would have said no, but if he had, he would have to admit that what he was doing, was in fact, questionable and borderline stalking. 

Were you to ask him how he would explain what he was doing, he probably would have used the word “sleuthing” or something of the sort. He was simply trying to, in the most innocent terms, track down a person he had grown interest in after seeing once. There was really no “good” way to explain what he had been up to, but love made people do crazy things, or so he’d heard. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he had been feeling the past few days; was it love, he did not know. All he knew was when he had seen the trombonist and heard him play, it had got him feeling some type of way which he was unable to accurately describe. He would have time to figure it all out _after_ he had managed to locate him again. 

The first tactic he had tried was to find the jazz club again the next night, however, that proved to be a much more harrowing and tedious task than one may have originally thought. It was much more than Aziraphale had thought it would have been in any case.

Now, navigating had never been his strong suit*, but coupled with both the fact that it was _London_ he was trying to navigate at _night_ , all he ended up doing was getting terribly lost. So lost in fact that by the time he had given up the search for the night, he had to resort to getting a hotel room to stay in as there was no way he would be able to make in back to his own flat anytime before sunrise. Perhaps he didn’t enjoy sleeping much, but he definitely did not want to spend the rest of the night wandering aimlessly around the city. That would have been a bad idea for more reasons than one. 

*Read: he had no sense of direction whatsoever.

The next day, he tried a new approach in his search: try and find to see if the trombonist had a presence online. Much like his previous attempt, the task proved more difficult than previously thought for two reasons: firstly, Aziraphale was in no way internet savvy, and secondly, “jazz trombonist in London” was not much to go off of. Especially when the jazz club he had played in had been very, as Gabriel had put it, “underground.” He couldn’t find mention of the club online, nor could he recall anyone at the club ever mentioning the soloist’s name or anything. 

After a good two hours of trying his best to come up with any satisfactory results and still coming up with none, he called it a day and went out for lunch. He ate and went back to his flat for the manuscript he had been editing before heading out to spend the rest of the daylight hours working on it in St. James Park. 

On the third day, Aziraphale decided to try his luck again in locating the club, but this time, in the daylight hours. He tried to recall all the routes Gabriel had dragged him along and struggled to picture the few street signs he had barely bothered to glance at. Now that he was seeking out the place, he realized maybe he should have memorized the way to get there as it was a very outwardly suspicious place and he thought he might have been taken somewhere...unsavory, to put it lightly. Had he not trusted Gabriel as much as he did and he had ended up being led to one of these unsavory places, he would have been, in short, screwed. 

But that was then, and this was now. There was no need to fret about a past that didn’t actually happen.

What he seemed to remember to be a mere thirty minute or so walk the other night turned into a multi-hour excursion that day as he retraced his steps the best he could. After a very long search and hours of aching feet later, Aziraphale was quite thankfully when things finally started to look vaguely familiar and became absolutely delighted when he had managed to relocate those ominous stones stairs with the equally ominous wooden door at the bottom, tucked away in the forgotten alley. 

He considered going inside then and looking about or maybe asking around if any one had heard from the man he was searching for, but the sun was starting to set behind the buildings in the west. He thought it would be best to head back to his flat and try again tomorrow as not to get lost in the dark (again). When he walked back that night, he made sure to commit the route to memory. 

On the fourth day, he woke up early in the morning. Usually when he woke up that early, it was with the (unwelcomed) help from his neighbor, but that day, he had woken up all on his own*

*Though not like he had gotten much sleep in the first place as he had been rather excited. 

After getting dressed and having a cup of tea, he made the journey back to the location of the jazz club and tried the door only to find that it was locked. Confused, but still determined, he knocked and waited. And then he knocked and waited some more, but after waiting a few minutes, the realization finally hit him. It wasn’t even _noon_ yet. Of course they would be closed at that hour. They probably wouldn’t even open until after dark that night. Disappointed, but otherwise unsullied, Aziraphale walked back to his flat to wait out the day. 

At around seven or so in the afternoon, he finally set back out for the club, more jittery than ever. He was very glad to see that this time when he tried the door, the knob twisted and pushed open, the sounds of whatever jazz that was currently playing meeting his ears. Feeling a little out of place, he walked in and took a seat at one of the empty tables near the back of the room (there were far more than the previous time he had been there). There he turned his eyes to the stage and waited.

Towards the end of the night and after having been there for a couple of hours, Aziraphale had started to shift restlessly in his seat. The out of place feeling had only gotten stronger as the night went on; it was the exact opposite of what he had expected. Not to mention that it looked like his trip had been pretty much for nothing as he had not seen or heard anything about the man he was looking for. As a last resort, he glanced around the room and stood before approaching the bar not far from his current table. 

He cleared his throat and began tentatively, “Er...excuse me?”

The bartender* looked up from the glass he had been cleaning and set it down before walking over to Aziraphale, an expression of half concealed annoyance on his face. 

*Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, he had been sneaking glances at him all night thinking “What is this guy’s deal, looking about and sitting all alone for hours?”

“What can I get for ya?” he asked, this time not even trying to disguise the disinterest in his voice. 

“Ah, yes, well, there was a man here a few nights ago whom I am interested in. A trombonist see; he was very good. Amazing actually, better than anything I’d ever seen. I don’t really like jazz very much, but a..er... _friend_ dragged me along,” he tittered anxiously, only falling silent when the other man seemed to be scowling at him slightly with one eyebrow raised. Aziraphale coughed and continued, “Well, you see, I thought he was rather remarkable and I wish to find him again, but he doesn’t seem to be here tonight. Do you happen to know his name or when he plays next…?”

The bartender gave him a deadpan look. “Buddy, I just work here,” he said with a sigh.

Aziraphale’s nervous albeit hopeful smile fell. Yet another dead end.

Looking him up and down once, the bartender took pity on him. “But, yes, he was good. I saw him-” 

Aziraphale perked up immediately.

“-but I don’t know his name. Actually, I don’t think anyone does. He went by a weird stage name something like...Slimy? No, that doesn’t sound right...hm...Crawley? Yeah that’s it. Crawley. He apparently never plays in public, or so I’ve heard, so it was probably a one time deal. Even if he did come back, I couldn’t tell you because I wouldn’t know. I only work the bar so I don’t usually get to see the nightly lineups. Not to mention that this Crawley guy seems to operate on his on schedule. No one on staff even knew he was coming until a few nights before.”

Aziraphale frowned, disappointment written across his face. “Well...I suppose I could drop back tomorrow night and see-”

“We’re not open tomorrow,” the bartender stated bluntly

“Huh?”

“We’re only open Saturdays and Wednesdays. You must have come by on Saturday when Crawley went on. Today is Wednesday. You can come back next Saturday if you really wanted to, but I just about _guarantee_ you he won’t be here. Or that he will ever be back or that matter.”

The other man seemed to physically deflate. A silly stage name and an almost promise that the man with said stage name would never return? That’s it? That’s all he got; _that’s all there was_?

“Ah...right...thank you,” he said slowly, his eyes glued to a scratch on the counter top. 

Seeing how downtrodden the other had suddenly become, the bartender shifted on his feet uncomfortably. He was probably thinking something along the lines of _Ah jeez. What the hell did I just do to the poor guy_? Instead of staying that, he said “I’m, uh, I’m sorry. You...you have a nice night, man.” With that, he gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and quickly walked away, back to the glass he had been cleaning before Aziraphale had come over. 

“You too,” he muttered halfheartedly with a volume the bartender likely did not even here. Then, he turned and left the club, heading home alone in the dark. 

////

There were so many regrets that Aziraphale had accumulated recently. He didn’t even realize that he regretted them until they stacked up like a tower and toppled over, burying him underneath. It felt like there would be no digging out of the mess he had made for himself. He wished he had never gone to that café that morning. He wished he hadn’t bothered leaving his flat, or that he had ended up telling his neighbor to knock it off, had issued a noise complaint _months_ ago, had moved out the moment his neighbor moved it! 

But most of all, Aziraphale wished he had never allowed Gabriel to take him out in the first place. Wishing did nothing however, so he was stuck underneath his pile* of regrets.

*It really couldn't be considered a _tower_ anymore now that it had toppled over, now could it?

It was some sort of rejection (which Aziraphale had never been good with dealing with in the first place) and he wasn’t taking it very well at all. Yet again, he could find himself wishing he could just act like a normal person about this. A normal person would have been disappointed, yes, but ultimately unaffected. After a few days, this Crawley character would fade into a memory and simply be forgotten.* 

*Much like a song you heard on the radio, made a mental note to look up the lyrics later, and forgotten. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it would at least be lurking in the back of your mind for a few days. 

But no, he instead was acting very irrationally and far from a normal person, both facts he knew and disregarded. He didn’t know why he felt so bad about losing this man, this _stranger_ , into obscurity, nor did he know why his heart ached so much. Perhaps...he actually had fallen _in love_ with the trombonist? Instead of making him feel better or giving him an understanding as to why he felt the way he did, that conclusion only made him feel so much worse. If he was in love with him, then it meant that he had not only lost an interesting person, but the _love of his life_. It was just too cruel, too painful to bare thinking about! As a moderately religious man, he wondered that if God were up there, were they laughing at him? Probably.*

*If he had actually Known just what was going on, he would have seen that he couldn’t have been further from the truth. He was right in the sense that there was someone Up There laughing at him (namely a few angels), but God was in the business of sending someone to tell them to Cut It Out and in turn also working tirelessly to set things the way they had planned for them to go in the first place. Not that it would take much effort on God’s part. They were _God_ after all.

The following Saturday rolled around and Aziraphale had resolved not to return to the club that night. Or ever for that matter. He actually just decided to do nothing but lay in his bed, mope and actually sleep for once. He would have been surprised at how many hours in a row he could sleep through had he not been so upset. It was actually quite the opposite though as he hardly noticed the passage of the hours at all, even when he was awake. Going to bed at five in the afternoon and waking up at half past noon made no difference to him than going to bed at eleven at night and waking up at eight in the morning. 

It was, however, well before eight in the morning when he woke up on that Saturday. Or more accurately, had been woken up. It was six thirty-nine to be specific. And the cause of his rude and early awakening was none other than the familiar, yet still horrible wailing sound no less. His neighbor. Of course. They had been silent for a week, only deciding to play now. It was another taunt from God, Aziraphale was sure of it.*

*It was much less of a _taunt_ and more of a _prompting_. 

Aziraphale groaned and rolled over, pulling his sheets and pillow over his head in an attempt to block out the noise, but to no avail. How horrible. How horrible and so terribly cruel his awful neighbor was! Merely a week ago, he had heard the most beautiful sounds the instrument in question could offer and had somehow fallen head of heels for the one who played it. Merely a week ago, he had lost someone he didn’t even know, yet someone he still loved dearly. And now he was being tortured in the worst way, being forced to hear the trombone being mishandled and borderline abused. It only reminded him of what it could sound like should the player have been at all competent. 

It hurt and it made him angry. But above all, it made him sad and desperate to make it stop, desperate to make the feelings of loss and rejection stop haunting him. 

He stood laboriously from the comfort and sanctuary of his bed and trudged from the room. He hadn’t even bother to grab his robe or put on his slippers as he passed.* Half listless, he exited his own flat and walked to the next door over. The trombone continued. Aziraphale almost hesitated, his rationally and no-confrontation self taking over for a moment, but seeing as the instrument continued on, he found he could not stand it anymore and the desperation took control once again.

*He couldn’t be bothered to make a good first impression at that point. 

Aziraphale halfheartedly pounded on the door, leaning his weight into the pitiful knocks. “Oh stop it, please! Stop torturing me in such a way, please, just stop it!” he cried, all the while still pounding on the door just as lackluster and tepid as before. 

He didn’t even notice when the noises from inside stopped, nor did he notice the footsteps approach from the other side of the door and the lock click.* What he did notice however is when the door swung open and he all but fell into the arms of whom he could only have assumed to be his neighbor. 

*While he liked to consider himself a perceptive person, this only really applied to books (either the ones he read for leisure or edited himself). The outside world was definitely _not_ something he could be considered ever observant of, not even on his best days. 

“Whoa, careful there, angel,” a smooth voice from above him said. Long, slender arms and beautifully manicured hands helped steady him back on his own two feet. His was too distracted to thank him. 

“Please,” Aziraphale said, even sounding pathetic to his own ears. “No more of that infernal racket. I can’t take it anymore…” He trailed off as he lifted his eyes from the carpet between his and the stranger’s feet. Time seemed to slow as he took in the sight of the person standing before him. The only word he could use that described how he felt was “shocked,” but he wasn’t even sure that covered the full extent. 

Just as before, one word came to mind as he stared at this stranger, the first and last word he would ever use to describe him: beautiful. Before him stood the trombonist from the jazz club, Crawley, and Aziraphale was speechless. 

When the man in front of him laughed; it nearly took Aziraphale’s breath away. His golden eyes behind his sunglasses* screwed closed with mirth, his head tipped back slightly. Aziraphale felt the tips of his ears and cheeks grow hot. “Alright,” the man said, a sarcastic and teasing, yet not unkind tone in his voice. “I hadn’t realized just how much you hated the show I had put on for you.” He finished with a smile that matched his tone: teasing without malice. 

*Aziraphale didn’t have time to question why he was wearing them at nearly seven in the morning, nor why he was wearing them inside at all for that matter. 

The man paused and the air between them was silent for a moment, and that was when Aziraphale realized he had been gawking. Quickly, he closed his mouth before opening it again, trying to think of what he wanted to say. “How did you...Who...What…?” He realized he probably sounded (and looked) like a fool and decided to stop talking entirely. Instead, he coughed awkwardly into his fist and looked away. 

The man laughed again, music to Aziraphale’s ears. “Why don’t you come in? I can make us some coffee.”

Aziraphale didn’t like coffee very much and would have preferred tea, but he accepted the offer nonetheless* before following the man inside his flat, the latter shutting the door behind them. He walking into the kitchen, asking Aziraphale to wait for a few minutes, and left him standing all alone in his living room. To say this man’s dwelling was just _different_ from Aziraphale’s would be a severe understatement. His own flat was comfortable and cozy, full of warm colors and books on every surface. One look would have told an outsider than it was well lived in. 

*He wasn’t in the position to decline at any rate anyway. Firstly, it would have been rude to refuse an offer from his host, and secondly, he was afraid that if he opened his mouth again, he would only end up making more of a fool of himself than he already had. Instead he had just nodded mutely.

On the other hand, standing in his neighbor’s flat made him feel like he might as well have been standing on a different planet, or at the very least, another building entirely. It was everything Aziraphale’s own flat wasn’t. It was cold (but not to say unwelcoming), full of simple and neutral colors and impeccably clean. The decor was all sleek and shiny from the leather couch in the middle of the room to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall in front of it. The only evidence that someone really lived there were the plants that were just as well manicured as everything else in the room. They were so brightly green and perfect, not a leaf out of place, that Aziraphale thought they just had to be fake* before he took a closer look.

*No living plant could look _that_ perfect.

It was then, standing in the perfect flat, he realized how under dressed he was and how much of a mess he probably looked. He didn’t have time to fret and be self conscious though, as a moment later, his neighbor returned with two mugs in his hands. He held one out to Aziraphale which he took politely, though he had no intention of actually drinking it. 

“You looked like the type that needed his coffee to taste nothing like coffee at all in order to like it so I put a ton of sugar in for you.” 

Aziraphale was taken aback, but touched nonetheless. One sip couldn’t hurt, right? He tentatively brought it to his lips and much to his surprise, it wasn’t unpleasant. 

His neighbor sat on the couch and reclined casually and Aziraphale followed in suit, yet remaining rather stiff in his seat.* It dawned upon him in the beat of silence that he didn’t even know his name. 

*He was never one for “casually reclining” and his nerves were not helping him relax in any case.

“Er...I’m sorry, but I don’t think I ever caught your name…?”

“It’s Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. But just call me Crowley; everyone does.”

 _Finally_ , thought Aziraphale. A name to match both his (formerly) wretched neighbor and the remarkable trombonist from the club. He could see where the stage name “Crawley” came from, but still wanted to know more of the story behind it. He made a mental note to ask later. “Well, Crowley, it is very nice to...finally meet you. I’m Aziraphale.”

“I know,” Crowley said casually, the smirk still on his lips. This was definitely not the answer Aziraphale had been looking for, nor one he thought he would have received. 

“I...what?” 

Crowley chucked at his surprised expression. “The name plate outside your flat. I saw you go in a few days after I moved in and I wanted to know your name so I looked.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed red. Why hadn’t he thought to just look at his name plate before he asked? Not for the first time that morning, and probably not the last, he felt a bit like a fool.

Desperately wanting to change the subject as not to bring more embarrassment upon himself, he glanced around the room, looking for anything that could bring up a conversation starter. Finally, he eyes settled on the very thing that had prompted his visit in the first place. Crowley’s trombone was resting carefully on it’s stand just behind him and next to the arm of the couch. Aziraphale suddenly remembered what he had come over to do in the first place. 

“Why do you insist on playing so horribly?” Sure, it was blunt,* but it got his point across well enough. 

*Read: rude.

Now it was Crowley’s turn to appear surprised. Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, but he imagined they were a little bit wider, now. “Hm?”

He probably had some idea as to what Aziraphale meant,* but he elaborated anyway. “I was at the jazz club last Saturday. You know, the night you played. I’ve seen what you can do and it’s simply stunning, to say the least. I’ve never heard anything like it. And then you come home and wail on it like you did this morning. Which I don’t appreciate by the way; you wake me up every morning! But, that’s besides the point. If you can play so beautifully, why do you insist on putting up such a torturous racket?” 

*Even a beginner would have been better than the sounds Crowley had been producing for the last few months.

Crowley actually looked somewhat touched at Aziraphale’s kind words before he looked away, his cheeks dusted a light shade of pink. He muttered something under his breath that Aziraphale didn’t quite catch.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

Crowley repeated himself as requested, but no louder than he had before. Aziraphale leaned forward in his seat, trying to get a look at his face. Why wouldn’t he look at him? “Sorry, one more time? You’re mumbling, dear,” 

The pet name that slipped out seemed to do it for Crowley. “I was trying,” he all but shouted before quickly quieting down to something hear a whisper, “to...annoy you…”

They seemed to be taking turns in surprising one another. It was almost a game: Which One Can Make the Other Most Bewildered? Well, at the very least, Crowley had certainly achieved what he had intended to do, that was for sure! In fact, admitting that had only served to make Aziraphale even more annoyed. “Well, you’ve accomplished that, all right!” he snapped, turning up his nose slightly. “But why would you want to annoy me; what did I ever do to you?”

“Well,” Crowley started, fidgeting in his seat. His long and slim fingers tapped the edges on the coffee mug in his lap. His cheeks were still flushed a light pink. It seemed like he had undergone a complete personality change from when he had opened the door that morning. He was acting more a flustered schoolgirl now than the suave gentleman he had been acting like earlier. This seemed to suggest, at least to Aziraphale, that he had only been putting on a front of coolness. He found that it was almost _endearing_ , actually. 

Crowley coughed into his fist and continued, desperately trying not to make eye contact. “I first saw you a few days after I moved in and I thought...ah...you were...ehem...cute.” It was a statement, but his nervous infliction had made it sound more like a question. “So I wanted to get your attention so you would have an excuse to come out and talk to me…” His cheeks were much less pink now, but a cherry red, instead.

Oh. He didn’t know what he had expected him to say, but he was certain that that was not it. Aziraphale’s blush just about matched Crowley’s and he stared at him, something akin to a starstruck expression on his face. It took a moment to collect his baring and he realized that Crowley was probably waiting for him to say something, _anything_. 

“Oh...well, I , um...thank you. But why didn’t you just try to talk to me first?”

Crowley laughed, finally looking back at Aziraphale. He peered over his sunglasses at him. “Yeah, I’m not exactly good with subtle.”

Aziraphale laughed as well. “That’s alright, dear. That’s what I’m here for I suppose. And for the record, I find you very handsome, too,” he admitted bashfully. 

The pair smiled at each other. Aziraphale would have been worried that his smile looked a little goofy* had Crowley’s not looked so similar to his own. 

*Read: like a love-struck idiot.

“Hey!” Crowley suddenly said, standing up and abandoning his coffee mug on the table. “You said you liked my playing, so why I don’t I show you what I can really do?” He picked up his trombone.

“Oh! Yes, please!” He was dying to hear him play again.*

*Actually play, like at the jazz club, not wail on it like he had usually been doing.

Crowley winked at him, lifted to trombone to his mouth, and began to play.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes when i get home from work late at night, i see my trombone in the corner of my room and something in my brain just says "play it horribly right now and annoy everyone in the house." i decided to do something else instead and this is the result.
> 
> also this is a lot longer than i intended oops. btw, the song crowley supposedly played at the jazz club was a section from a song called "fly or die" in which there is a really nice slow trombone solo.


End file.
